


like falling apples

by wajjs



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Suggestive Themes, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: If Gotham's a force of nature, so much akin to gravity itself, then he is the very apple succumbing to its rules and desires.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Jason Todd, Clark Kent/Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 8
Kudos: 95





	like falling apples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuro49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/gifts).



> the always amazing kuro sent me this prompt: clark/bruce/jason, in which clark discovers Gotham's gravity

**like falling apples**

There's this pull, this unnamed drive, that is pushing him closer so subtly he can barely tell. Like an energy no one dares to acknowledge, borderline otherworldly, tiptoeing the limit of super and natural. There is this pull and the pull is within a range of all things, wickedly divine.

But perhaps divine is not quite the right word, because it might not adhere to those that believe there is no place for anything holy among all this humanity, among all this mess. Perhaps the word he's looking for is _inevitable_ , maybe _undeniable,_ maybe _overbearing, all-encompassing_. 

Inescapable.

He longs to fight this force, to resist the pull, and yet the harder he tries the more violently this centripetal energy drives him in, coils him (tight, tightly, tighter) around the very center. And right there, at its core, it is bleeding, it is breathing, it is shining away life and shadows.

If Gotham's a force of nature, so much akin to gravity itself, then he is the very apple succumbing to its rules and desires. He's quick to discover that here, designations are different, expectations unknown, successions unquestioned. He discovers that here there is little sense in trying to stop the fine things set into finer motions, even with his otherworldly strength, even with all his power, here he is nothing but a man brought upon his knees. A man with a heart that beats and skin that is warm. A man that yearns the sight his eyes see. A man starving, yet still clinging onto a frail little semblance of control due to sheer pride.

When his fingertips find themselves feeling the not untouched, far from pristine, skin of sharp hips, it's like the very universe is slowing down, like he's coming down in one too many levels. The contact is the kryptonite of his thoughts. His touch is reverential and firm, yet unafraid to pull the body closer to his, to bring their point of union fully to him. To settle deep inside.

The whine that earns him is the sweetest sound he's ever heard, the rarity of a delicacy, the ghost of a promise in the dusk of fulfillment. A smile dances upon his lips and he shifts again, grinds himself home, sheathes in and pushes out in a practiced motion, one ingrained in his very bones. The young man is on his knees and hands, legs spread open, eyes ajar. The curve of his spine is that of pleasure, the hitch of his breath is the one of fire. Of desire so deep it runs black, red and blue. So deep it runs to never end. And he's a starved man, a denied one, and he's developing an ever growing addiction.

Maybe it's half as much about the innate pull as it is about these moments, in many beds, with always the same bodies, with desperation that varies in degree of intensity. Maybe it’s half as much about the gravity innate to Gotham, that impressive force always driving his wandering steps back to this point, point one - or point zero - out of a hundred to come; maybe it’s half as much about this gravity as it is about the yearning that goes without name, the pain that is too fresh, the love that binds and knows no end.

So he shifts his hips till he grows still inside, pulses hot and sticky, brings back to chest and feels against him that wonderful shudder that always wrecks the other, always so sensitive, always so eager and such a breathtaking work of art. It makes his name come out as a whisper, a needy utterance of the sounds of each syllable, the one thing that makes him _consider_ : what if I had you, what if you allowed me, what if we were to keep entangling ourselves until it’s just the two of us, until you forget.

Lois said his love knows no limits.

He’s unsure whether this is truly that.

A third pair of hands snaps him out of his hold, makes him remember to lay the spent body back down atop the disarray of blankets, sheets and fluids. One of them then reaches out, touches his cheek, trickles across his jawline, reminds him that he should breathe, perhaps, breathe and accept what comes with breathing: the scents, the return of each and every sensation. Clear eyes meet clear eyes, no cloud of storm or rain, only the mist of want. The thin lips on a pale face stretch into the semblance of a smile and he’s stricken by the undeniable rush of being _known._ The experience of seeing his reflection in irises shrouded by knowledge and years of silently watching, eagerly seeing, always registering.

“Give me a moment,” the one between them, face partially smudged against a stray pillow, speaks then, making the two of them look down and smile, “and I’m good to go again. Wait. Maybe five.”

“That’s alright, Jason,” he says, chest feeling broader, and can’t quite stop himself from redirecting his sight to their point of union as he begins pulling out - he misses the heat immediately, wants to be wrapped up in it again, yet he knows it is too early in the dawn for them to fall into overstimulation. That will have to wait. Perhaps this might also be one of _those_ encounters, too. “You were wonderful.”

From where they are kneeling on the bed they cannot miss the way the tips of Jason’s ears grow red. His honest reactions to praise will never grow old, unlike them. He is heaven and the promise of time in their hands.

“You always are,” the other’s voice is barely above a whisper, still so loud it drives them into silence, one charged with so much care, such deep longing… 

Clark can’t help but think, when the three of them are in these moments, how can they not see? How can they lose sight of this, of their hearts and minds, whenever they stray two steps too far from the doors to the many bedrooms they’ve been in? If every instance carries vulnerability and every day there is gravity pulling them closer, how can they damn each other when they both feel so much devotion and so desperately?

“Bruce,” Clark finds his lips moving before he’s even finished thinking his words through and through in an attempt to be clear but also be mindful of the sensibilities the two men before him have, “you are always watching.”

Your eyes are on him, always, is what he manages to swallow down before sound hits the air. You are devouring him with your sight.

He doesn’t say what he means and halfway means what he says. The stilling of Jason in the grasp of his hands lets him know that this too hasn’t gone unnoticed. It’s to be expected when he’s in bed with two over analytical minds.

"Does it feel good?" he asks and smiles to soften the blow, sky-clear eyes glinting. "To watch?"

"Clark," Bruce pushes out the name like a warning. Jason laughs a little, a rattled sound, lifts his head just enough so that his eyes meet Bruce's from underneath his lashes. A look both Bruce and Clark have been confronted with enough times to know clearly what it means: _got you._

It's clear in the relaxed line of Jason's shoulders. In the way his heartbeat stays even, a companion and a steadying drumming to the widening of Clark's smile. Because many times it has been said his smile is a superpower on its own, yet there aren't enough odes about the leverage Jason's eyes have on Bruce, on anyone who gets close - the way one look can make the mightiest of them all crumble down to their knees. And here is the evidence, the two of them, with him, always looking for him.

"Allow me," Clark breathes out, gives Jason's hips one last squeeze. "Let me feel that pleasure."

Jason rises from between them, slow and sinuous, a perfect flow of movement. He rests a hand on Bruce's left thigh, squeezes, and leans closer with no mercy, armed with a killer smile.

"Yeah, B," he chuckles, eats up the little suppressed groan Bruce lets out when Jason's other hand goes straight for the gold and wraps around that delicious heat, so hard and so wet, "let's give him a show."

**Author's Note:**

> [(Also posted this on tumblr)](https://wajjs.tumblr.com/post/612086791461322752)


End file.
